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I didn't wear my blue suede shoes today

I do in fact have some. They need some serious breaking in and I'm not sure my feet are up for it.

That's about the extent of my commentary on the thirtieth anniversary of the Death of Elvis. (Does that sound like a Terry Pratchett character or what? Death of Rats, Death of Elvis. Death of Elvis wouldn't have too much to do except hang around the bar and comb his hair, because of course Death of Elvis wouldn't have a bare skull.) Way back on the day it happened, my reaction was basically "Who?" because my musical education had been pretty much limited to the Top 40 stylings of WLEE.

My childhood was tragic in the insidious way of water wearing away a stone drip by soul-poisoning drip.

Speaking of drips, a massive line of thunderstorms has been rolling through town for the last five hours. The thunder shakes the house. Water pounds on the roof. There is a damp smell.

I'll try not to think about the smell.

It's probably nothing.